Touching Soubi
by Kiyoshi Dot
Summary: Ritsuka liked to touch Soubi, softly, secretly, when Soubi was asleep and unable to respond to his caresses – when Soubi was helpless.


Ritsuka liked to touch Soubi, softly, secretly, when Soubi was asleep and unable to respond to his caresses – when Soubi was _helpless_.

He liked to explore Soubi's body with his hands – (of course he always felt very self conscious about this, although he wasn't quite sure why. After all, Soubi always took the liberty of touching _him_ whenever he felt the need to, never once complying to Ritsuka's protests). But with Soubi, it almost seemed to Ritsuka that the adult's body was a sacred object that he was forbidden to know.

And so Ritsuka touched Soubi's body when he was sleeping. Ritsuka liked to stroke Soubi's limbs, which were lean and slender and so foreign to the younger boy. Soubi's long limbs fascinated Ritsuka; the elegant grace they possessed; radiating gentle strength whenever he held Ritsuka close.

Ritsuka liked to press his fingers gently to the tiny details of Soubi's arms, how the bones connected at his elbow; how fragile the cartilage of Soubi's ear was and the downy flesh pierced by metal. Even the tiny bones in Soubi's long fingers enthralled Ritsuka. He would hold Soubi's hand in both of his own, bring it close to his face as he examined the way Soubi's fingers curled inward toward his palm. He liked the way the broken shafts of light from lamppost illuminated the pale flesh; as it tightened around the connecting bones of the knuckles as Ritsuka carefully made them bend.

Ritsuka liked to press his ear against Soubi's narrow and sharply defined shoulder blades; right at the center of his back, and hear the slow steady rhythm of Soubi's breathing. He liked to hear the way Soubi breathed when he was asleep; because then was the time when Soubi's breathing sounded relaxed, unlabored; as if it was an effortless task as it normally should be.

Yet it wasn't always _normal_; not with Soubi. But then, hardly anything ever _was_ when it came to Soubi.

Whenever Ritsuka stood by Soubi's side during the times when the older man was awake, or when Ritsuka was embraced by Soubi, Soubi's breathing sounded . . . _strained_. And even though he would smile down at Ritsuka, kiss Ritsuka, tickle Ritsuka – each breath he took seemed to be like a conscious task. And this upset Ritsuka, concerned him, although he never voiced such worries aloud. Soubi would of course dismiss his concerns by changing the subject, or maybe running his skillful fingers along Ritsuka's collarbone ( which always sent him into a blushing tizzy. )

When darkness encompassed the small empty bedroom, and sleep had snagged Soubi beneath its enticing spell, Soubi was his.

Soubi belonged to him only when he slept, when he could not resist the younger boy's curious explorations of affection. Ritsuka couldn't love Soubi when Soubi was conscious; because Soubi always tried to control _him_, or distract him or dismiss him. No, Ritsuka could not love Soubi in the way that _he_ wanted to; because Soubi would never let him. If this was a conscious act on Soubi's part, Ritsuka did not know. But he was sure it was not; some nagging suspicion made Ritsuka to believe that Soubi simply could not handle the affection Ritsuka wanted to implore upon him.

Ritsuka's love was too gentle, his touches too careful, too cautious of hurting Soubi. When his fingers ran along the raised, cruel slivers of flesh across Soubi's throat, it was done so gingerly; as if the contact his skin made across Soubi's pale flesh might break the old scars.

_"Does it still hurt, Soubi?"_ Ritsuka asked once, tentatively, looking up into Soubi's face with worry in his eyes. And Soubi would frown slightly, as if confused by Ritsuka's concern and bothered by it.

Once Soubi had grabbed Ritsuka's hands and locked them fiercely around his throat.

_**"Hurt me," **_he had commanded, his voice straining with an emotion Ritsuka could not understand – _pain? __Fear?_ The desperation trapped within Soubi's eyes terrified Ritsuka nearly more than the action he was being forced into did.

And Ritsuka's eyes had widened in alarm as he desperately tried to wrench free his hands from Soubi's brutal grasp. Already the older man was squeezing Ritsuka's hands around his throat; and Ritsuka could see the tendons in the man's neck struggling beneath the tender flesh.

_Iie_

Ritsuka had been infuriated with Soubi for a week after that.

But that was then, and this was now. This moment belonged to Ritsuka, and so did Soubi.

Ritsuka liked to watch as Soubi's lightly colored hair coiled lazily around his neck as he slept, falling around his shoulders and pooling around his head. His fingers always itched to stroke it, to thread his fingers through those silken strands and see them glisten in contrast to the tan of his palm.

For some reason, Soubi liked to sleep facing the wall beside the cot he slept on; his body curled in a fetal position towards it. Ritsuka could never understand why Soubi slept as he did; he always thought it made Soubi look lonely when he slept like that. Because it seemed that Soubi was pressing his body to the cold wall in an attempt for comfort of some sort. As if someone had carelessly discarded him there, tossed him in some dark corner; and Soubi's wrists were always crossed against one another, in front of his face; as if both those slender wrists of his were bound together – chained to a wall . . .

_Let__** me**__ comfort you, Soubi!_

Ritsuka would crawl up on the cot beside the sleeping fellow, knees hugged against his chest as he watched Soubi's back rise and fall in the faintest of movements.

Yes, Ritsuka liked the night; because that was when he could watch Soubi sleep, and that was when he could touch Soubi and kiss Soubi and love Soubi.

When Soubi was purely his.

Soubi refused to go to bed until he knew that Ritsuka had, regardless of how exhausted the college student was. So Ritsuka would have to trick Soubi into thinking he was asleep, just so Soubi would actually get the sleep he so desperately needed. Ritsuka would climb into his own bed just as the sun began to slip behind the slanted rooftops of the apartment buildings; and he would pretend to sleep, waiting for Soubi to finally succumb to his own exhaustion and collapse to the bed in his room.

Soubi was always fully dressed when he fell asleep.

And Ritsuka liked to explore Soubi's body differently each night. At times he liked to lay against Soubi, and fit his tiny legs carefully into the bend of Soubi's longer ones, right behind his crooked knees. And Ritsuka would press his chest snuggly to Soubi's back, little hands knotted loosely onto the fabric of his shirt.

Something about seeing his tiny limbs molded so closely to Soubi's always made Ritsuka feel oddly special inside. Maybe it was just such a fondness, an appreciation of knowing that _he_ was the only one who would ever be able to be so close to Soubi; that _he_ was the only one who got to see Soubi while he slept, while he was vulnerable.

Some nights, if Soubi was not too close the wall, Ritsuka would be able to angle himself in a way that would make it possible to have Soubi's head resting upon his lap. And he would watch Soubi's face, and touch the tender flesh of his eyelids, the softness of his lower lip; the little prickles of his eyelashes.

If Ritsuka was feeling bold (which was rare and always left him feeling guilty by the time the night was over anyway ) Ritsuka would dare to touch Soubi's skin – his _naked_ skin, hidden beneath the protective cover of his shirt.

Ritsuka loved to touch Soubi's skin most of all. Soubi's skin was like a blanket of fire, singeing Ritsuka with each caress; igniting his fingertips with each drag across the length of Soubi's spine; which was clearly defined beneath the worn and scarred canvass of skin stretching across his arched back.

_"Soubi, you're so thin – you need to eat more,"_ Ritsuka had complained to him once.

Soubi had seemed unusually pleased by this remark, pausing from the canvass stretched before him to reward Ritsuka's concern with a smile – a genuine smile.

_"Is Ritsuka concerned about me?"_ Soubi had mused, in a tone that was obviously an attempt to make Ritsuka blush, _"How cute."_

Of course, Soubi had never even attempted to fulfill Ritsuka's command, regardless of how charmingly delighted he had been by it.

If Ritsuka was lucky, on some nights Soubi would fall asleep wearing a buttoned down shirt. And Ritsuka could carefully unbutton the older man's shirt, and peel it down his arms and spread it out on the mattress beside Soubi.

And Soubi would stir slightly, and flinch beneath Ritsuka's hesitant first touch.

But Ritsuka would whisper in Soubi's ear, his hand gentle upon Soubi's shoulder; and he would kiss Soubi's pierced lobe and croon softly words that often were not even understood by Ritsuka himself.

And the tension in Soubi's clenched muscles would release, allowing Soubi's breathing to return to the way it was supposed to be – effortless, comfortable, steady. That was the way Ritsuka wanted it to be.

Kio once told Ritsuka that Seimei beat Soubi; and that if Ritsuka had ever seen Soubi when his flesh was broken and bleeding, that he too would realize what a disgustful being his brother really was.

Ritsuka had felt a tremor of doubt stir low in the pit of his belly when he had been told that; because at times, just by the way Soubi acted in response to Ritsuka's efforts to be physically close him, Ritsuka was suspicious that Soubi had been abused in his past. But Soubi's expression had turned cold towards Kio, his voice unreadable as he reassured the troubled boy that Seimei never once mistreated him.

It was hard to believe what Soubi said; even on such a fragile subject such as questioning Seimei's credibility.

_"But the scars on your back, Soubi.__ Who did that to you?"_

And Soubi had simply responded: _"It was apart my training for becoming a Fighter."_

And that had been that. Those scars belonged to Soubi and whoever it was that had inflicted them upon him.

But that was when Soubi was _conscious_; when _Soubi_ was in control of his own thoughts and words and memories.

When Soubi slept, however, that became a different story. When Soubi slept, the gruesome scars tainting his shoulders and lower back belonged to Ritsuka – they were Ritsuka's pain. And Ritsuka claimed each one of them with each lingering stroke of his pink tongue along the path of those jagged strips of flesh.

_Soubi . . . I want your pain to become mine._

When Soubi wandered throughout the day, Soubi belonged to himself; each sensation, each flicker of his eyes, each choice of words and actions.

But when Soubi slept, his body belonged to Ritsuka. With each touch of his curious hands, with each caress of his lips upon Soubi's flesh, Ritsuka was claiming Soubi as his own – _he_ was the one bestowing love upon the one he most desired – in his own secret way.

When sleep surrendered Soubi to him alone.


End file.
